Culture

Everybody needs a role model. Some look to athletes. Waste of time. Politicians. Fuck that. The clergy? Jesus, no! Historical figures? More than likely all lies. When it comes to male role models the only ones worth having are fictional ones—and, much like the Dignified Devil himself, the best balance for a man to shoot for is 80 percent dignified, 20 percent devil. In other words, Han Solo. Let’s let the man speak for himself…

Every story has a moral or lesson, either explicit or implicit. But there are also super-implicit lessons communicated directly to the subconscious, so subtle it takes a keen, non-jaundiced eye to discern them. Star Wars (the original trilogy—we’ll pretend the prequels never existed) is ostensibly about how good always triumphs over evil and that intuition is more powerful than rationality—but here are the five secret, subversive lessons the movies teach us in addition.

One of America’s most famous criminals, Jesse James, is shot to death by fellow gang member Bob Ford, who betrayed James for reward money. For 16 years, Jesse and his brother, Frank, committed robberies and murders throughout the Midwest. Detective magazines and pulp novels glamorized the James gang, turning them into mythical Robin Hoods who were driven to crime by unethical landowners and bankers. In reality, Jesse James was a ruthless killer who stole only for himself.

Let us speak of false dichotomies. When it comes to Sixties bands, it’s usually “Are you a Beatles man or a Stones man?” Well, my reply is, “I’m neither, my good sir—I’m a Doors man.” Strange for me to admit it, since I’m a sworn foe to pretentiousness and phony mysticism in all their variegated forms: but there’s a charm—an indiscreet charm, if you will—to the band and particularly to its front man, one Jim Morrison (charged with exposing himself onstage in Miami 40+ years ago this week), damned difficult to resist.

Everybody knows a guy who’s in a band. This is that guy. Now, maybe the guy you know who’s in a band has genuine talent and what’s more he works hard at plying his craft. Or maybe the guy you know who’s in a band isn’t so talented but holds on to that shred of hope that he’s really a genius while he continues to be a drain on the finances of his family. The guy in this ad is most likely the latter.

The author of the Declaration of Independence was a heretic—at least by mainstream Christian standards. Didn’t believe in the Trinity, wrote off the Book of Revelation as “merely the ravings of a maniac,” and, even more damning, he slapped together a book in which he combined the four Gospels but failed to include any of the miracles or any of Jesus’s declarations of divinity.

The word “gentleman” is a weapon. And this ad wields it sado-masochistically. Masochistically in that there’s no reason why two people can’t stand under that umbrella. This guy is obviously glorying in his own abasement.

A sense of style. It’s something everyone’s innately aware of but challenging to explain. It’s there before our eyes but elusive in having its construction defined. Some call it having taste. Others name it panache. Some identify its presence as being suave or debonair. What we choose to call it becomes an exercise in nuance. The point is that a sense of style is essential if one is to be considered dignified.

It always struck me as strange that my father, a church-going, decidedly monogamous teetotaler, would enjoy the James Bond films—and expose his son to them. On Sunday morning the virtues of non-violence, anti-materialism, and sexual purity were preached to me, while on Sunday evening I was treated to violence, conspicuous consumption, and bed-hopping in the form of 007.

This PlayStation commercial for a new Star Wars game plays on the only other force stronger than the sexual one in the American male: nostalgia. Nostalgia is a re-imagining of the past caused by dissatisfaction with the present. And judging by this TV spot, the American male is thoroughly unsatisfied—pitifully so. Because the guy in this ad is just straight-up pitiful.

The Great Gatsby is not F. Scott Fitzgerald’s greatest piece of writing. That honor instead goes to a series of three essays first published in Esquire in 1936 collectively called The Crack-Up. The Crack-Up recounts the writer’s strange encounter with a nervous breakdown and depression—and its eloquent, brutal honesty hit me like a Louisville Slugger when I first read it and re-hit me like that selfsame Louisville Slugger when I recently re-read it.